Immortal, Invincible
by Zeionia aka Disturbed
Summary: Death likes to check-in when its Master has a near miss. Harry tries not to anger the ancient, unknowable being that could snuff out his life like a candle flame, especially not when he's so close restarting his career as a professional stunt rider. And Reborn has the unfortunate luck of barging into Skull's conversation with an old acquaintance. Curse his protective instincts.


Disclaimer: I do not own the _Harry Potter_ series or _Katekyo Hitman Reborn!_ nor do I make any profit from this work.

Immortal, Invincible

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The moment Reborn opened the door, he knew something was wrong inside the mansion. Skull had returned early—Reborn had clocked the stuntman's motorbike in the garage as a matter of habit—but everyone else was supposed to be gone for the day. Skull couldn't possibly be responsible for the oppressive aura penetrating every corner of the house.

Reborn closed his eyes and stretched his other senses. Skull _was_ in the house. The stuntman's violet Cloud Flames brushed against Reborn's yellow Sun Flames in silent recognition. Skull's flames were agitated, but Reborn couldn't tell if it was fear or something else bothering the lackey. Skull had a dismal sense of self preservation. The faint sound of clattering china reached his ears followed by the murmur of quiet voices. He touched the edge of his fedora and Leon skittered into Reborn's hand, shaping itself into a perfectly sized weapon. There was an unknown in their kitchen, possibly threatening their Cloud, which was right reserved for the Arcobaleno. Reborn couldn't let the situation stand.

All of the Arcobaleno were living under the same roof temporarily. Verde had found a way to hasten their return to their proper ages as long as they stayed close to each other, and all of them had agreed it was worth exchanging their independence for a faster recovery time. It almost felt like the old days. Except Yuni could never be mistaken for Luce; Colonello slept in the mansion instead of camping out in a sniper's nest; and most importantly, there were no missions to occupy their time. The strongest flame users in the world were bored out of their minds, each one a walking disaster waiting to happen.

It was Skull the lackey who prevented a total meltdown. He had gone head-to-head with Verde for room in the garage and won the right to half the space, which he proceeded to fill with not one but five different motorcycles. Skull was preparing for a return to stunt riding after the curse wore off completely. As soon as his hands were big enough, he started to disassemble and reassemble every machine to re-familiarize himself with their working parts.

Once Skull was physically large enough to drive, he started to disappear for hours or days at a time. The other Arcobaleno began to realize they looked old enough to be out in public without concerned civilians asking for their parents and had started running errands to the nearest town, sometimes the even took day trips. It slowed their progress, much to Verde's dismay, but as long as they returned to the same house most nights, they still grew older faster than they would have alone and without the risk of killing each other from pent-up frustration.

They were growing up together, literally, and healing their wounds at the same time. This generation of Arcobaleno, the last generation of Arcobaleno, were closer to each other than any of their predecessors. They had hope for the future and had already proven themselves to be the strongest in their respective fields. It was doubtful any of them would admit to caring about the others aloud, but it didn't stop those feelings of affection from existing.

Reborn slipped silently through the mansion to the kitchen door. Even from this close, the voices were nothing more than a quiet murmur. Reborn could positively identify one as Skull—and who knew Skull could be quiet without the threat of imminent death hanging over him!—but he didn't recognize the other voice, and he couldn't be sure there weren't more people in the room who weren't talking.

There were only so many options available in a situation like this. Reborn considered all of them at lightning speed then shrugged his shoulders and kicked open the door.

"Lackey!" he shouted leveling Leon at the occupants of the kitchen table. "Who the hell is this?"

"Reborn!" Skull yelped and fell out of his chair.

Reborn took in the scene in a glance. Only one unknown party. No one was armed. No one was bleeding. There were cups and saucers on the table but nothing to explain the unpleasant feeling of creeping death pervading the mansion.

The unexpected visitor was a skinny young man in his late teens or early twenties, dressed informally in a t-shirt and jeans, pale caucasian, messy dark hair, vivid green eyes, badly abused glasses, and a thin scar shaped vaguely like a lightning bolt in the center of his forehead. More than enough information for a hitman of Reborn's caliber to track the man down if needed. There was something about his face that was familiar though Reborn was positive he had never seen the man before.

Worse than the niggling sense of familiarity, the man appeared amused, like Reborn and Skull were putting on a private show just for him. He wasn't intimidated by Leon's gun-form in the slightest.

Skull scrambled back to his feet with all the grace of a gangly teenager. It was an awkward age for all of them. But Fon and Reborn hated it more than most. Reborn hated being out of control of his body. Fon hated the special junction of pubescent hormones, Storm Flames, and a body incapable of executing kata he had performed a thousand times before. Fon expressed his displeasure frequently and explosively. On the other end of the spectrum, Lal Mirch and Colonello were having a great time revisiting their youth together. Unfortunately, they kept forgetting to close the door to their room.

"Reborn!" said Skull nervously. "This is Death. Death, this is Reborn. We were, uh, chatting over a cuppa."

Reborn's face twitched. He couldn't help it. For one, Skull had friend named Death. For another, Reborn had spent weeks training Skull to make the perfect cup of espresso the first time they lived together, and while the lackey had managed it eventually, he always went for the teakettle first.

"I'm a huge fan of your work," purred Death. "A devoted follower, if you will."

The hairs on the back of Reborn's neck prickled. This person was dangerous and not just because he was a _fan_ of the World's Greatest Hitman. "Lackey, you aren't supposed to bring people here."

"Death just shows up when it wants too," muttered Skull with a scowl at the floor.

If Reborn hadn't needed to keep Leon trained on the dangerous intruder, he would have shot at Skull for his impertinence. The lackey should have the decency to pretend to be afraid of Reborn in front of guests, especially since Leon was loaded and ready to fire.

"I have a schedule, thank you very much," sniffed Death disdainfully. "And I don't need an invitation to check in on one of my favorites."

Reborn frowned and glanced between the two. "Are you related?" he asked cautiously.

The longer he studied two of them, the more Reborn was willing to accept the possibility. The coloring was all wrong, but otherwise, Death looked identical to an uncursed, adult Skull. If the man was a blood relation, it might explain why Skull was so resigned to his domineering presence.

There were flaws with this theory. Reborn and Colonello's bullying aside, Skull rarely put up with people's shit. He didn't let just anyone boss him around, and lies and obfuscations sat poorly on the on the stuntman—part of why life in the mafia was so difficult for Skull. Furthermore, Reborn had known Skull for thirty years, and Death was a young man, who shouldn't have any authority over a much older Skull, no matter how young he looked. It was possible Skull's family had passed down blackmail through the generations, but Reborn did not like that idea at all.

Skull's expression vacillated between alarm and confusion. "I don't think that's an option."

"Oh, we're not related," added a grinning Death. "Master and I know each other _intimately_."

"What," said Reborn flatly.

If Skull had brought a booty call back to the mansion _where the Arcobaleno were in hiding_ , he was getting shot. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Reborn would not entertain the thought of anyone addressing Skull as "master" in the bedroom, no matter how much leather the stuntman wore.

"Oh, Merlin," whimpered Skull. "You are such an asshole."

"I'll tell him you think so next time I see him," said Death. In an aside to Reborn, he added, "We're meeting for drinks on Tuesday."

"I was talking about you!" screeched Skull throwing his arms up in disgust.

The large movement drew all of Reborn's focus for a fraction of a second. When his eyes shifted back to Death, the man was gone with nothing to show for it but an empty cup.

Reborn flared his Sun Flames, but the only other source of flames he could feel was Skull, who was groaning about brain-bleach and knocking his head into the table. If Death was a Mist user, then he had to be at least as skilled as Viper to hide from Reborn.

"Lackey," growled Reborn. His voice cracked at the end, but he was willing to overlook the effects of a second high-speed puberty if everyone else was. "Who was that? And why was he here?"

"I told you already!" moaned Skull. "That was Death, Le Mort, the Grim Reaper, Shinigami, whatever you want to call it! And it was here because "the Immortal Skull, who Death Finds Vexing Professionally but Appreciates as a Source of Cheap Entertainment," while accurate, doesn't fit on a marquee! I have no control over it!"

The hitman raised his eyebrows. Clearly, Skull was having a mental break. Reborn would just have to look into the man himself. Reborn had gotten a solid look at Death. He looked like Skull, except for the eyes and the hair. Skulls didn't have eyes or hair. The skeletal Grim Reaper would possess neither.

Reborn was developing a headache, and Skull's half-muttered grumblings weren't doing anything to make it better. Coffee might help. Reborn glanced at the cup of tea on the table and sneered internally. Externally, he fired a warning shot at Skull's head.

"Lackey! Make me an espresso!"

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For the purposes of this fic, Harry is Skull. "Master of Death" is a (mostly) empty title invented by wizards, but Death (HP Universe) uses it as long Harry doesn't make the mistake of thinking he's in charge of anything. Likewise, Death visits Harry in a perfect copy of Harry's body because Death is annoyed that Harry is hard to kill and enjoys messing with Harry's head.

Death cannot use Flames of the Sky or magic, but it does meddle with Reborn's memories. Theoretically, Reborn will remember this encounter later down the road. Also, Death is fan of Reborn because if the hitman's victims see him coming, they're resigned to their deaths and very easy to shepherd along to the afterlife.

This one-shot is an excerpt from a longer HP/KHR crossover that popped into my brain after reading a handful of Skull-is-Harry fics. The _outlining_ for the greater story got so long so fast that I put further brainstorming on pause until Soul of Fire is closer to finished. This bit is stand-alone and mildly humorous, so it's going up now. But I'm not adverse to writing more in the distant future.

Thanks for reading! Please review.


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